


The Princess of Winterfell's Forge

by KyraAnnCoombes



Series: Princess of Winterfell's Forge Universe [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, House Stark, bastards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:58:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyraAnnCoombes/pseuds/KyraAnnCoombes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gendry is the smith in a rebuilt Winterfell, and his relationship with Princess Arya has resulted in the second bastard in Winterfell to be named Jon Snow. Queen Sansa is furious, Arya doesn't care, and the elder Jon Snow is of no help...But Gendry could fix everything, if only he'd ask. A simple, funny, moderately fluffly Arya/Gendry one-shot with only vague, unimportant spoilers.</p>
<p>(Copy/Pasted wholecloth from my FFN)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Princess of Winterfell's Forge

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first attempt as ASOIAF fanfiction. It's reposted from my FFN.

The Princess of Winterfell's Forge, the smallfolk called her. When they felt less kind, it was Arya Snow, or the Lady of Bastards. Many thought it curious that so much of Lady Arya Stark's life was made up of bastards: First was her dear half-brother, the late Lord Eddard's natural son; and next was Ramsey Snow, the dead Lord of the Dreadfort, who had married a false Arya before the end of the war. When the true Arya had come back to the north at the age of four and ten, she arrived with a third bastard, to whom she granted domain over the rebuilt forge. His name was Gendry Waters, and it was a sort of open secret that he was the baseborn son of none other than the late king Robert Baratheon. When she had walked through the gates of the castle grounds, leading a small, ragged party of loyal friends, he had been right at her side. In the eight years she'd been home, that hadn't changed. In fact, their constant interaction had led to the fourth bastard in Arya Stark's life, a black haired and blue-eyed little lordling called Jon Syrio Snow.

* * *

Queen Sansa was known throughout the North as a just, levelheaded and kind ruler...except in matters concerning her younger sister. The peace after their reunion wore off rather quickly, and by the time Arya's pregnancy became known to the Queen, the shouting match that followed was rumored by the smallfolk to have shaken the snow off the top of the Wall.

" _How_  am I supposed to marry you to a lord if you're pregnant by a lowborn smith?" Sansa had shrieked when Arya told her she was expecting.

"You're  _not!"_  Arya retorted hotly, "Marry yourself off, if it's so bloody important, because I won't marry anyone, even Gendry! And you damned well know he's not just any baseborn tradesman, but you still haven't seen fit to legitimize him in the almost five years since I've been home, even though that's well within your powers,  _Your Grace!_ " The honorific was dripping with malice.

"I can't believe you're still such an insolent, selfish  _child,_  Arya! I am tasked with keeping half of Westeros in peace and instead of  _helping_  me, you've decided that you'd rather be mistress to the by-blow of a false king who has been dead for twenty years!" the Queen paced across the floor of the chamber that had once been her lady mother's.

Arya scoffed. "Some peace to keep. Roose and Ramsey Bolton are long dead, their castle long burned. Jon won back allegiance from the Karstarks singlehandedly, and the rest of the bannermen followed," she began ticking off the statements on her fingers, "the Targaryen girl's dragons destroyed the Others, the Night's Watch is as strong as it's been in centuries, and there are only about 12 wildlings left, one of which is our youngest brother..." Sansa winced. Her inability to convince Rickon and Bran to return to Winterfell was what she considered to be her biggest failure as Queen in the North. "...The Southron King's wife owes you her  _life,_  and winter ended two hears ago. Yeah, it sounds pretty tumultuous," Arya finished indignantly.

Sansa's beautiful face slowly turned purple. Arya wouldn't-Arya  _couldn't-_ understand what it meant to rule. After all, the years that Sansa had spent watching, listening, and learning the game of thrones were also the years Arya had spent disguised as a boy, wandering from King's Landing all the way to the Neck, then disguised again as an orphan when she crossed the Narrow Sea, where she'd lived in Braavos under a host of disguises. Her history had imbued in her a deep mistrust of everything related to ruling, understandably, so by her own choice, Arya was about as ignorant as the castle's smallfolk when it came to the finer subjects of the throne. "Fine," Sansa said quietly. "Have your bastards, then."

That argument had taken place over three years ago, but had been revisited many times since. Almost all of the castle's many attendants and serving girls had only been in Winterfell since it had been rebuilt, else they may have recognized that Queen Sansa gave Jon Syrio the same cold looks that the first Jon Snow had received from her lady mother. Half a dozen times, Sansa had offered to legitimize him if only Arya would consent to marry a lord, but the attempts proved fruitless each time. Every time Sansa begged her to stop telling bawdy jokes to the cooks, she told three more. Every time she requested that she wear a dress to a feast, she wore ragged trousers instead. And every morning that she scolded her for walking to her chambers from the forge in her clothes from the night before, Arya responded by sneaking Gendry into her bed for the night. On darker days, Sansa thanked the Mother that her sister's frequent couplings had thus far only produced one child.

As private as Sansa tried to keep her sister's indiscretions, she knew that the second Jon Snow of Winterfell was hardly a secret. As Arya's reputation and the knowledge of her son became more common, the pool of willing suitors grew shallower and shallower.

It wasn't as if Arya cared. This summer day found her in rolled-up sleeves and breeches, sweating in the forge. She looked across the dusty, blackened room at the muscular figure pounding a dirk into shape, and spoke loudly over the sound of metal on metal. "Sansa won't be pleased," she said, uncertain.

"You're pretending to care about that?" Gendry asked flatly, resting his hammer on the table.

"No," she responded wickedly.

He shook his head and went back to his work. She never changed, Arya. Two-and-twenty, Princess of Winterfell, and here she was in breeches, hiding from her sister behind her tangled hair. He recalled the one time Sansa had tried to put a stop to their relationship. Around the time of his twenty-first name day, he'd woken in the middle of the night with a dagger at his throat and a rag over his eyes. Blind, hands tied, and on horseback, he and his captor had ridden about a dozen miles in silence before the cloth was torn from his eyes, which he promptly rolled. "Mind if I ask you what the hell you're doing, Your Grace?"

"Shut up!" Arya kicked him. "You're no fun at all as a prisoner," she'd added, untying him. "You didn't even try to bargain for your life or figure out who I was or where you were being taken. If it was anyone but me, you'd be dead."

He rubbed his wrists. "That's because I knew it was you,  _Princess_. No one else can move through the forge, the stables, and the Wolfswood that quietly. Why are we here?"

"Sansa told me it was improper to carry on with you like I do, so I decided we were leaving."

"You're a proper wildling, d'you know that? Stealing me away in the night-"

"You can't talk to me like that!"

"Excuse me," he bowed melodramatically, "I meant you're a proper wildling,  _m'lady_."

She roughly tossed a pack at him in response. "Would you have rather I stopped seeing you?"

He hadn't answered.

"Oi! What'd you say that for?" Arya said, tossing a nut at his head.

Frowning, he looked up from the pail of smoky water he'd been staring into while he revisited those memories. "I was just suggesting it," he said absentmindedly, returning to the weapon.

"You'd have to ask her yourself, though; she won't do it for me. She'd sooner eat her slipper than accept a lemon cake from me, these days." she picked at the splinters on the broomstick in front of her.

"And I'm sure you're completely innocent as far as that goes," he said sarcastically. "But I'll ask Her Grace."

"We don't have to..." she ventured, looking anywhere but his eyes.

Again he put the hammer and half-formed dirk down, taking long strides over to her. He took her small face into his calloused hands and met her eyes. "If you would rather me be your lord husband than a smith, I will do anything to make that happen. I'll ask the queen to legitimize me."

"I wouldn't rather," she said glumly, like a child. "I would rather be a Princess of the forge, like the smallfolk say."

He winced. "I didn't know you'd heard them say that."

"I haven't. Hot Pie told me, the last time I was in the kitchens. He thought it was funny. I do, too. I like it."

Sometimes, even at two-and-twenty, she was the same scrawny child she had been when they'd met. "You're Lady Arya Stark, the warrior princess of Winterfell, no matter what any serving girl or stable master says," he reminded her, before sighing and adding, "...and soon to be the mother of two smith's bastards." He looked away, momentarily consumed by guilt. Every time she kissed him, every time she showed up in his bed or dragged him to hers, something always reminded him that he wasn't good enough for her, that she should be married to some rich, fat old lord, that he shouldn't be ruining her like he was. She'd hit him the first time he'd talked about ruining her, and said that she was perfectly capable of ruining herself. Therein was his problem: even if he could, even if he'd wanted to say no to her, she wouldn't allow it.

"If Sansa says yes, we could go to Storm's End," she said hopefully. "Stannis isn't having any more children, so you'd be the heir..."

He blushed. "Yes, but only if Her Majesty says yes. She doesn't like me very much, if you recall, and you're about to give her more cause," he looked down at her stomach.

Arya made a face. "I hate it when you call her that. She's just Sansa, honestly!"

"It's treason if I don't," he reasoned gently. "Get on, the stable boys are gawking," he said brusquely, stepping away from her. "And I'd like to see my son today," he added as she hopped off of her seat.

She nodded and walked up behind him, kissing between his shoulder blades as he picked up his tools. "Thank you," she whispered.

* * *

"Where is your son, Arya?" Sansa asked calmly, eyes resting on one of the empty spots at the small table.

"Eating with his father," she responded, her voice thick through her mouthful of food. She swallowed quickly. "What's your problem with him, Sansa? Have you forgotten that our lord father didn't love Jon any less for his birth?"

Before Sansa could respond, the elder Jon strode into the room. "My apologies, Your Grace," he said solemnly, "Little Jon isn't joining us?" he asked Arya in a more friendly tone.

" _With Gendry,_ " she mouthed, shaking her head cautiously towards Sansa.

Jon lifted his eyebrows in understanding, unbuckling his grey, fur-trimmed riding cloak. "Alys Karstark sends her regards," he said more formally, a slight blush rising to his pale cheeks, "and she graciously accepts the betrothal, my name and all."

Arya smiled widely and congratulated him, but Sansa simply nodded and began eating. "Thank you, Jon. I hope your marriage will give you much happiness."

Arya ate quickly and excused herself, nearly running out of the Queen's tower and to the forge. She snuck up behind her small son and lifted him unexpectedly off of the bench where he was picking at a chicken leg. "Jon Syrio, did your father leave you all alone in the forge?" she teased, tickling the toddler's belly

"No!" Gendry called defensively from deep within the forge. "I'm looking for something, hold on." A moment later he emerged, carrying a small something wrapped in dirty cloth. "It's for you, Jon," he said modestly.

Jon's face lit up at the present in his father's hands. He wriggled out of Arya's arms, tripping over himself as he went towards Gendry. "What is it?" he begged excitedly, tugging at the leg on Gendry's trousers.

The smith kneeled next to his son. "Open it," he said softly, careful not to let the grime of the forget get on the little bastard lordling's clothes.

Arya's chest tightened suddenly. She felt like she was intruding on a private moment, as if the little boy wasn't her son and his father wasn't her lover, as if she was an invisible guest watching this beautiful moment.  _He's a much better father than I'll ever be a mother,_ she thought guiltily. Her lady sister did as best she could to limit Jon Syrio's interaction with Gendry, fearing that Arya made him wild enough without the influence of a bastard tradesman, so moments like this happened precious little. Arya stayed as quiet as possible, watching as her son unwrapped the bundle in his hands.

"Wow," he breathed, pulling the tiny tourney sword from the bundle of cloth and clumsily swinging it.

Arya grinned widely. Jon Syrio had been asking his uncle to tell him any stories he knew of knights and war and valiant heroes, then retelling them to Arya, putting himself in the hero's place. A sword was exactly what he needed, and though this one was small, it would still serve until his seventh or eighth name day. "What are you going to call it?" she asked gently, ruffling his dark hair.

"What did you call your first sword, father?" he questioned eagerly, still too young to understand that his mother had been as much a warrior or more than Gendry had been.

Gendry smiled. "I didn't use swords. I preferred warhammers." The din of a hundred battles rustled distantly in his mind, but those times were long past.

"Warhammer," Little Jon said seriously. "Its name is Warhammer."

Arya chuckled and kissed her son. "Wrap it back in the cloth and go show your uncle, I'm sure he has some advice for you."

Jon Syrio ran towards the castle shouting for his Uncle Jon.

"A sword?" Arya asked curiously, rising to her feet and wandering towards Gendry's quarters in the back of the forge.

He followed, like he always did. "I thought about a hammer," he said honestly, "but he takes after you in everything but looks, so I thought a sword would fit." He slid his arms around her. "He's so much like you," he murmured against her hair.

A pang of guilt washed over her and she buried her face in his chest. His rough tunic scratched her cheek. "I'm sorry he doesn't get to spend more time with you," she mumbled, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. "Really, I try, but Sans-"

"You can't act like everything that goes wrong in the world is Her Grace's fault," he said pointedly. "Besides, we may get to be a proper family, soon. I'm asking today."

Arya looked up, surprised to see that he'd severely washed himself since that morning, and had put on his nicest tunic, vest and breeches. "Today? But-"

"But what, Arya? D'you think she'll be more receptive when she knows there's another child of mine growing in you?" he snapped. "I'm sorry," he added quickly, his voice quiet. "I need to go present myself. I love you, Arya."

She nodded silently, her stormy grey eyes showing all of her concern. Gendry was ever her stupid, bull-headed boy, and she knew no words of hers could force him to back down from this.

He stepped away from her and buckled his only cloak with a small bull he'd wrought himself, and then picked a roll of parchment off of the table by his bed. A soft, lingering kiss later, he left the forge, a determinedly steely glint reflecting from his deep blue eyes.

Arya left not long after. Her presence at the quiet court would do nothing to help Gendry, so she saddled a horse and rode outside the gates of the castle and into the Wolfswood. It didn't take her long to find the spot she was looking for: a secluded clearing she'd known as a child. She tied her horse to the trunk of a large tree and leaned against another, letting her emotions thunder over her.

* * *

It was as terrifying as any battle he'd fought. The Winter Throne was high in the room, and the Queen sat nobly upon the roughly hewn white weirwood. Her subjects made a modest line that stretched from the center of Winter's Court to the base of the throne, a line that he joined at the back. It was summer; the grievances and tribulations of the smallfolk and liege lords were few. Half bore gifts or good tidings, and the Queen thanked them kindly for their generosity.

It was easy to see why she was loved and respected. Wise, intelligent, gracious beyond her years, Sansa Stark was a perfect queen.  _To everyone but her sister,_ Gendry supposed, a thousand of Arya's complaints bubbling to the surface of his memory.

He smiled to himself, wondering if any two sisters had ever been more different. It was late afternoon before it was his time to speak with her. When only he remained of the queue of subjects, she turned to the maester at her left side. "Maester Godwyn, I will receive Ser Gendry in my solar in a quarter of an hour's time," she requested, rising from the throne. Three grey-clad knights of her Queensguard escorted her from the hall as the maester began signing a stack of parchments in front of him.

Fifteen minutes later, Gendry followed Maester Godwyn down the path the Queen had taken. The links in the maester's heavy chain clinked gently against each other as their wearer ascended to the solar.

The door was open, and the Queen sat behind a wide table in a dark wooden chair, the weirwood crown contrasting vividly with her auburn hair. Gendry entered behind the maester and bent his knee, waiting to be addressed.

"Ser Gendry Waters of Hollow Hill," Maester Godwyn announced. The Queen and her maester seemed to be the only people who remembered that Gendry was a knight of sorts, himself included.

"Rise, ser," Sansa said quietly, her face stoic. "What is your business this day? I trust this is not about matters in the forge."

He complied. "I have this, Your Grace," he said, offering the parchment, "from Lord Stannis Baratheon of Storm's End."

Godwyn took the parchment and unfurled it, reading. "It says that Lord Stannis acknowledges Ser Gendry as his nephew by his late brother Robert. The document is signed with maester's black and dated from the end of the War of the Five Kings."

Sansa thanked the maester and looked at Gendry. "Ser, you've had this in your possession for as long as you've been in Winterfell, yet thus far you were content to serve as a baseborn smith. Why ask to elevate your status now?"

Her eyes were light blue, but the look in them was one he'd seen in stormy grey a thousand times. "Lord Stannis is aging, m'-Your Grace," he corrected himself, "and has no sons. I am the eldest male of three bastards recognized by him. The seat of my blood has no heir," he finished, almost confident. He thought it best not to mention Arya or his son.

"This would not legitimize my sister's son," she stated.

Emotion nearly flashed across his face before he spoke cautiously. "No, Your Grace." He recalled the Queen offering to legitimize Jon Syrio if Arya married a lord, and hoped the offer still stood.

Sansa considered for a moment. "Lord Stannis Baratheon was a strong ally to the North. For  _him_ ," she said, almost sharply, "I will grant your request-"

A small smile threatened to spread across his face.

"-But I don't believe I need to tell you that I expect you to marry my sister, and to  _take her with you_  when you go to claim your place as Lord Stannis' heir," she finished. Gendry felt like the safety of Westeros may have depended on that condition. "You may leave, Ser Gendry Baratheon. Maester Godwyn will notify Lord Stannis of your legitimization." Gendry hesitated, looking as though he might speak. "Unless your business is not complete?" she prompted, curious.

"I-Thank you, Your Grace. I was only wondering if I would be staying long enough to train the next smith for the castle," he said hesitantly. "I haven't had a steady apprentice, yet, and I wouldn't want to leave Winterfell without a source of steel."

Sansa considered his words. "An apprentice can be arranged for," she decided. "A chamber can be made available for you in the castle, as befits your station, if you would like."

Gendry bowed. "Thank you, Your Grace, but the forge has been my home in the North for eight years," he said modestly.

She allowed a small smile. "I thought you would say as much. I'm sure Arya would love to hear the news," she hinted kindly.

He bowed deeply again, uttering a stream of thanks. The maester formally dismissed him, and he walked dazed from the Queen's solar. Outside of the castle, he crossed the arms yard on his way back to the forge. He stopped to see his young son giggling and swinging his new sword around haphazardly, much to the amusement of the elder Jon Snow. "Have you seen Arya?" he asked, trying to contain his excitement.

"She left towards the woods on a horse…" Jon's grey eyes were shrewd. "What are you so excited about? What were you in the castle for?"

Gendry shrugged. "Nothing. Arya'll kill me if I tell anyone before her, even you," he apologized. "How's Little Jon with the sword?"

Jon reluctantly accepted his friend's evasion, and nodded towards the toddler. "Clumsy, so far," he chuckled. "Though I remember being much the same. He's named it 'Warhammer,' which I haven't been able to get an explanation for, yet."

"Oh! That," Gendry explained the origin of the small sword's name, laughing. "I'm going to find Arya, though. She'll tell you about all this later." He ruffled his son's hair and walked towards the stables.

"I'm not a wet nurse!" Jon called, but Gendry ignored him.

* * *

Somehow, he always found her.

The sun was low in the sky when she heard the curses. Gendry was awful on a horse-he'd grown up in King's Landing, and spent his young adulthood walking Westeros by foot-and Arya recognized his voice after a moment of tense panic and called out to him.

"Where in the seven hells  _are_ you?" he shouted grumpily as he tried to lead his horse through the woods.

"Over here, stupid," she laughed, slipping out from between two trees. "Give me those," she demanded, relieving him of the reins and guiding the horse into her clearing. "What are you doing all the way out here?" she asked, her voice light. She knew why he was there, but she couldn't make herself ask about his visit to Sansa.

He awkwardly dismounted the horse and tied it to the same tree as hers. "For such a small woman, you're an awfully big pain in the arse sometimes," he teased. "The things I go through for you…"

_Teasing is a good sign,_ she decided,  _but I can't let myself be too hopeful._ "I've heard," she retorted. Her voice softened. "What did…?" the sentence trailed off, but the question was in the air regardless.

"I'm afraid you're getting married, m'lady," he breathed, bringing his lips down to hers and kissing her deeply.

Moments later, when they broke apart, Arya's eyes were questioning. "How did you get her to say yes?" she insisted.

"I didn't mention you, for one. Went on about Stannis and my blood and such. The Queen isn't the total witch you make her out to be, y'know. I thought she was kind and rational, unlike the other Stark women I've met," he goaded, poking her in the ribs.

In seconds, she knocked him to the ground. "Why don't you just run off with her, then?" she snarled jealously.

Gendry laughed loudly, despite the pain from his fall. "Will you calm  _down?_ That's no way to treat your lord husband, honestly," he said, playing with fire. "Get down here, will you?" She frowned and kicked him in the side, but sat beside him anyways. He responded by pulling her on top of him, much to her chagrin.

She tried to wriggle out of his strong grip. "What're you tossing me around for? I'm pregnant!"

"I seem to remember you dueling a visiting knight in the arms yard while three months pregnant with Little Jon," he contended.

She grumbled an incoherent reply and settled her head on his chest.

"I love you," he reminded her.

"I know. Are they still going to make me wear a maiden cloak for the wedding?"

He scoffed. "D'you think I know anything about that? I was a bastard until about half an hour ago. For all I know, they sacrifice a dragon when a lord and lady get married."

"Don't be stupid."

"As m'lady commands." The joke never got old for him, and it never failed to make Arya angry, even after more than a dozen years. She pinched him. "Ow!" he winced. "Shit, Arya, I'm  _allowed_ to call you that now!"

She smiled smugly and sat up on his chest. "I'm not going to wear one," she decided, crossing her arms. "What's the point in strapping some big cloth wolf or stag to my back? I don't even want to wear a dress."

Gendry pouted. "I was hoping for a dress. Maybe something green, with acorns? I seem to recall you making a nice oak tree." It looked like Arya was leaning in to kiss him, but he didn't trust that she was.

His instincts were right. Her lips fell on his ear…and bit down, hard. He howled in pain and nearly threw her off his chest. "You're  _evil!"_ he yelped.

She laughed and kissed him truly. "I love you, too."


End file.
